<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>You don't know what your life is, nor what you're doing, nor who you are. by Panny</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28102299">You don't know what your life is, nor what you're doing, nor who you are.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/pseuds/Panny'>Panny</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Disco Elysium (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Developing Relationship, Insider POV, M/M, Post-Canon, Rotating POV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:35:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,205</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28102299</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/pseuds/Panny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Kim try to find their rhythm in the after. As narrated by the Greek chorus of Harry's inner monologue.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Yuletide 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You don't know what your life is, nor what you're doing, nor who you are.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullborn/gifts">fullborn</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title taken from <i>The Bacchae</i>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Conceptualization:</strong>
</p><p>The paper is a metaphor.</p><p>The paper is also, of course, a physical thing, taking shape under fingers that have long since mastered the art of nostalgic craft. It makes the metaphor better, really. Gives it an edge of <em>trompe l’oeil</em>, but in reverse. Because anyone can see the real paper, but it takes truly gifted eye to appreciate the metaphor.</p><p>No, no—don’t stop. It’s important to let the thought sink in, to savour it, maybe file it away for a poignant chapter in your memoirs, but you mustn’t leave the work—your <em>oeuvre</em>—incomplete. Yes, that’s it. Let the messaging guide your fingers—sublime, subliminal. The fragility of the paper is transformed under your careful attentions, becoming smaller and yet stronger as it is forced to bend into familiar corners. You are transforming it, paying tribute to whatever ancient tree it started as by gifting it a new purpose.</p><p>(<em>No one would blame you if you cried</em>, Empathy suggests. For a moment, the impulse lights up your mirror neurons and you blink rapidly in response. Hopefully it’s not the clenching of your gut that holds you back—the only protest that Endurance can offer now, atrophied from weeks careening between soporific slumps and screaming sobriety. Good riddance; you never needed it.)</p><p>Kim’s jacket lies draped across the back of his side of the booth, a bright splash of colour over the dark, worn upholstery. That might be a metaphor too, come to think of it. Or at least a poignant bit of <em>mise-en-scène. </em>He hasn’t been paying much attention to the act of creation taking place less than two feet in front of him, eyes scanning the restaurant. The lack of focus has not been mutual, but he doesn’t have your keen eye for detail, does he?</p><p>You’ve catalogued it all, secured it in a mind painting, a most conceptual selection of mental portraiture. You’ve noted the precise mid-bicep length of his shirt sleeves and how the skin of his arms holds less colour than his face—a natural consequence when he almost never goes outdoors without his bomber jacket, regardless of weather. Even other officers who take pride in the organization aren’t so adamant about showing it on their dress; it’s a uniquely Kim aesthetic. You like it. Like you like the way the bright splash of his jacket stands out in the booth. You’ve dressed in an appropriately complementary green because of it. Don’t say that you don’t put any thought into your dress. That may be true historically speaking, but it won’t do to undersell the art in your decisions. The faint perfume of neutral laundry detergent is not an accidental touch.</p><p>You’ve noted the arrhythmic tapping of his fingers on the table, breaking into spontaneous percussion at unpredictable intervals. You’ve observed him well enough to know that this means he wants a cigarette. It’s not quite a stress response; Kim only indulges his singular vice when he’s off the clock and he only rarely lets on to missing it. Only ever when he’s relaxed. He’s not really jonesing—not the way that you might.</p><p>(You don’t think that you’ve ever looked quite so good smoking up.)</p><p>(<em>How would you know?</em> says Volition. <em>You’ve been avoiding mirrors for weeks. Might do you some good to face the man in the glass.</em>)</p><p>(<em>The way he does it is practically pornographic,</em> says Electrochemistry. <em>You should join him sometime. Whatever way you want to take that. Or whatever way you want him to take it.</em>)</p><p>And still, you are not content in this momentary happiness, in the brightness of this new memory you’re creating. You're thinking about the "real thing", whatever you think that means. You don’t think the image is enough. But think how beautiful the longing is; the value of this feeling only grows the longer you allow it to go on unhindered. Can you think of any artists whose work was improved by having the things they wanted? Name one.</p><p>(<em>Is it really worth being unhappy to be interesting?</em> Volition says.)</p><p>Yes. (<em>Yes</em>, says Suggestion.) (<em>Yes</em>, says Half-Light.) (<em>Verrily</em>, says Drama.)</p><p>Besides, it could all go terribly. The neutral soap smell of your cheap detergent stings your nose, but it does not yet hold the kind of sensory memory that might drag you down, deeper, under. Emotion can lead to great acts of creation, but romance and tragedy are always tightly intertwined. Especially for souls as attuned to their own sensitivities as yours. As you well know. (And you don’t think about the smell of apricot gum. You just don’t.) At some point one of you might lose an ear and then what would you do?</p><p>(<em>If you haven’t lost a body part to sexual degeneracy, you’re not living</em>, says Electrochemistry.)</p><p>(<em>Don’t lose an ear. Fucks your balance right up</em>, says Hand-Eye Coordination. Slightly tangential, but the gesture of support is appreciated.)</p><p>Kim glances up at you, brows drawing together in an unthinking gesture of confusion that is both query and command (Authority is starting to sound more like Kim these days—or maybe that's just the withered thing you call a conscience). Perhaps you’ve been silent too long. Quick, think of something.</p><p>(<em>I’ve got this</em>, says Reaction Speed.)</p><p>Before you really process what you’re doing, your fingers flick your impromptu art project across the table, its metaphorical-metaphysical-metamorphalogical mass arcing gracefully over ringed rivers of condensation. Kim reacts just as quickly, hand snatching the paper out of the air without fumbling.</p><p><em>(He squints one eye just slightly as he does it</em>, Perception notes. <em>His depth perception’s never been quite right, but he compensates for it well.</em>)</p><p>Kim glances into his hand and briefly his brow creases further before smoothing out with realization. His smile makes you wish you had some paint or even a steadier hand. “I haven’t played with a paper football since I was a child,” he says, tilting the paper this and way and that in examination.</p><p>Your face muscles don’t move much as a rule; The Expression’s keeps its hold over them with a desperate, vice-like fervour. But now, maybe, you hold them extra still. You lean on a bit of <em>sprezzatura</em> to pull you through your uncertainty. You raise your hands and they don’t shake, Hande-Eye Coordination and Reaction Speed both rushing forward with purpose. For once, the whole of you is in breathless harmony as you carefully maneuver your fingers, thumbs tip to tip and pointer fingers raised to the sky. “Think you’ve still got the moves, Kimball?”</p><p>His lips draw in a disapproving frown, but they seem to hiccup on the way, like they want to move in another direction. He squints one eye, holds the paper steady, and fires back.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Visual Calculus:</strong>
</p><p>There’s something about the splinters. They’re spread out across the floor, haloing out from the body in all directions. There’s no shortage of carpenterial carnage to account for their presence and you can see Kim pick his way carefully over the collapsed remains of what might have been a table. Ever the immaculate professional, he leaves no unnecessary disruption in his wake, though you can’t imagine that anyone would be able to tell if he did. It might even be an improvement on the room’s current circumstances.</p><p>(<em>The correct root would make it ‘lignarial’</em>, Encyclopedia says. Ignore it. There are too many voices that don’t matter now and you’re missing something. You can’t afford distraction.)</p><p>You amble closer to the body, lurching across the floor in that Jamrock Shuffle you’ve trained into every sinew of your body. Even blind drunk your feet would know the dance. (<em>The drink makes your feet dance faster</em>, Electrochemistry says.) Even sober the ceaseless internal noise doesn’t trip them up. They carry you to the centre of the room where the splinters circle the body like a bullseye, focusing your attention on the once-man’s jacket, startling red like he wore it to mark the spot. Maybe he did. He doesn’t speak to you the way that some of them do, so it’s hard to say for sure. (You kind of wish he would; you want to know where he found a jacket that red.) Your feet know to stop at a respectful distance, though the splinter fragments have no such need for respect. They litter his shoulders like a bad case of dandruff.</p><p>(Your fingers itch and it occurs to you to dust them off. <em>To give him a little dignity</em>, Empathy suggests and you nod your head vigorously. That's probably the reason.)</p><p>Just like that the puzzle piece slides into place and your gaze sweeps from the spread of impromptu wood carpeting up into the deep dark of the rafters. (The draft creeps in, city wind seeping into the dark places you can’t see, Shivers raising the hairs on your neck. The other expected sounds don’t come—no rats creeping in the walls, no early autumn insects looking for warm hiding places before the cold hits. Just you and the wind and Kim’s footsteps slowing in some distant place outside of the cone of your awareness. Like something scared the rest off.)</p><p>You try to spin in place, gaze still glued skyward, but something stops you, an insistent pressure that brings the world rushing back as soon as you become aware of it. Blinking, you turn to find Kim, hand curled around your arm, lips a tight line beneath the shine of his spectacles.</p><p>(<em>The grip on your arm is too tight, almost to the point of bruising,</em> Perception says. <em>This isn’t his first attempt at getting your attention, sir.</em>)</p><p>(<em>You worried him</em>, Empathy says.)</p><p>“What did you find?” Kim asks once he's certain of your attention. It’s a sensible enough question, but something about the speed and surety with which he asks it makes your throat dry up, swallowing suddenly harder than it should be.</p><p>(<em>That’s the thirst, brother,</em> Electrochemistry says because that’s what it has always said. Might always say. You think it’s wrong but knowing is harder.)</p><p>“Look at the splinters, Kim.” He looks puzzled but does as you ask, pushing his glasses further up his nose, like getting the lenses closer to his eyes will help him to see from your perspective.</p><p>“They’re all centred around the body,” he says with a nod. “Whatever it was, it hit him hard. Or vice versa.”</p><p>“I think something fell from up there. He was standing up when it happened.” You show him the splinters on the shoulders and you can almost see his mind racing as he catches up, putting the pieces together so that they map neatly over the picture you’ve drawn. He takes a deep breath and then he too stares up into the too quiet darkness. The expression that he turns on you isn’t quite excitement; it runs at a different temperature, a little cooler. It makes something warm and kind of uncomfortable curl in your gut anyway. You choose discretion as the better part of valour (for a change) and decide to give your current deduction room to breathe. Enjoy it a little. You can talk to him about your bat-people theory later.</p><p>“I think we need to get a ladder in here,” Kim says.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Espirit de Corps:</strong>
</p><p>Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi’s desk is highlighted by the dim glow of the desk lamp, a small puddle of light in the quiet dark of Precinct 41. He doesn’t make a habit of staying after hours; it’s not a lack of dedication to his job, but he values what order he can maintain in his life. He hasn’t been able to convince himself to get up from his chair. His pen taps against his notebook, pulled down again and again by the weight of thoughts he won’t dare put into writing. He wants the papers he’s found on his desk to be a joke and he knows they’re not.</p><p>He likes Precinct 41. He’d liked Precinct 57 too, but not enough to stay when Harry had asked him to go—not after Martinaise. But he’s not staying just for Harry now—hasn’t been for a long time—and he’s finding it hard not to feel hurt even though he knows this isn’t really about him. He’s finding it hard not to feel hurt <em>because</em> he knows this isn’t really about him.</p><p>Lietenant Jean-Heron Vicquemare is always at the office late. He winces as he enters the dim light like he’s been in the dark too long, breaking through the rhythmic beat of Kim’s pen tapping with a muffled curse. “You still here, Kim?” he asks and Kim nods even though it’s plainly a rhetorical question. Even squinting, his eyes are sharp and they seize upon the papers before Kim can think whether it’s better to hide them. “Fucking asshole,” he says with sudden and surprising vehemence.</p><p>“I wasn’t planning on signing them.” Kim does move them now, sliding them into the top drawer of his desk without looking at them, not willing to face the bold typeface at the top of the transfer paperwork again. Not while in company. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just throw them out because he means what he says—the idea of rising to the bait, of following through on the unkind suggestion never crossed his mind.</p><p>“I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” Jean says, leaning against another desk in a way that endangers a small plastic frame but doesn’t actually knock it over. “Whoever left them there was still out of line.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t sign them,” Kim says again, like he’s stuck. His fists clench in his lap, bunching up the material of his pants.</p><p>“Glad to hear it. We’d hate to lose you.”</p><p>“It was one bad day.” Kim’s voice is sharp and too loud for the late hour and it takes hearing it for him to realize that he’s angry. At whatever prick left the papers on his desk like they were doing him a favour. At Harry for being the reason they were there in the first place, the reason he’d been the prickling, uncomfortable centre of office gossip when he felt like he’d been fitting in well. And he’s mad at himself for not being over it yet.</p><p>“Bad days are worse than the benders,” Jean says, not unkindly but without much sympathy. He sounds tired, like maybe he’s just too worn down to feel much about it. Kim is startlingly glad for it; he doesn’t think he could stand to listen if it sounded like Jean was sorry for him. “You’re always waiting for just <em>another</em> bad day.” He shrugs. “If you stick around.” There’s a name in those last four words and Jean doesn’t say it and Kim doesn’t ask.</p><p>“If you stick around,” Kim agrees, “there will eventually be another one.”</p><p>“Always is.”</p><p>Kim thinks about the paperwork in the drawer and looks at the inarticulate ink splotches on the open page in his notebook and considers the dangling precipice of life waiting for the next bad day. He thinks he might burn the papers when he has his cigarette later.</p><p>Jean grunts and leaves him to it.</p><p>(A million miles away you drift with your face so squashed into the floor that you can taste the carpet. You’re tired and too awake and you kind of want to puke but your stomach muscles just tremble instead. Kim isn’t here and that makes sense because you’re at your place. Probably at your place. And Kim lives at a different place.</p><p>It bothers you, suddenly, that Kim isn’t there. It’s a stupid way to feel; you don’t even really want him to be there because then he’d see you like this. You don’t know quite what ‘like this’ entails yet but the clues you’ve gathered don’t point toward anything good.</p><p>Your head pounds and even the deepest recesses of your brain want you to stop thinking about this. You lie in the dark and you try.)</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Volition:</strong>
</p><p>Today is a good day. Yesterday was all right too. It’s possible that even tomorrow might not be bad. There are really too many factors that play into that to ever be sure, but for now, it’s worth basking in the afterglow of a good day while you have it.</p><p>Kim sits on the steps outside your apartment building, his bomber jacket zipped all the way up against the chill in the air. You like that jacket a lot; it’s the coolest jacket you’ve ever seen, honestly. It sometimes occurs to you that you might ask to borrow it, but then Kim wouldn’t have the jacket and, well, that just doesn’t seem worth it.</p><p>Kim is having his nightly cigarette, smoke curling languidly through the dark. You want to ask for it, like the jacket, and you don’t. Instead, you say: “It’s cold out.”</p><p>(<em>It’s bracing</em>, Pain Threshold says, as if to justify why you haven’t brought a jacket of your own. Winter is rolling into Jamrock and goosepimples break out over your uncovered arms in a way that has nothing to do with Shivers and intuition.)</p><p>Kim frowns in your direction, cigarette hanging loosely between two fingers. “I don’t mean to keep you if you’re uncomfortable.”</p><p>You shrug because what he means to do has little to do with it. You do a little jig with your legs, muscles jittering in an attempt to create warmth through kinetic energy. Kim frowns a little more and after a particularly deep drag, he stubs the cigarette out on the sidewalk even though it’s only had enough time to about half burn down. You nearly cry out at the sight of it. Not because you want it (<em>though you do</em>, Electrochemistry says) but because you hadn’t meant to deprive Kim of it.</p><p>It’s as he crushes the remains of his cigarette with his boot, moving to stand that you find some bravery. “Do you want to come up?” What you plainly mean by that is <em>stay</em>, but maybe you’re not ready for that yet. You asked him once before in as many words, but it’s a different kind of <em>stay</em> now and you know too well that one <em>yes</em> doesn’t—shouldn’t—mean <em>yes</em> forever. If you don’t keep asking, you don’t have to fear a different answer.</p><p>Still, Kim barely hesitates before smoothly changing direction so that when he stands, he’s turning to face you instead of walking away. “All right.”</p><p>You try to remember the state you left your apartment in. You can’t. Oh god. “It might be a bit of a mess.”</p><p>He raises an eyebrow. “I saw your room at the Whirling-in-Rags. It can hardly be worse.” You wince and nod and try to remember if you ever plastered over the hole in the bathroom wall or just thought about it.</p><p>He follows you to the door and he doesn’t complain when you sidle too close during the short walk, pressing nearer to him and his warm jacket. Even when you need to enter the passcode, he doesn’t do the polite thing and give you some room. He keeps the lack of distance you’ve set for him until you’ve got the door open and can welcome him inside.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Yuletide, recip! I also desperately love all the different voices that share Harry's brain space (the stats and the way they function is always at the core of my praise when I rec the game to people) and the idea of using them as narrative voices. I couldn't resist trying to play in that space, so thank you for the opportunity.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>